


Feats of Jack London

by katiemariie



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alien Culture, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 01:37:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiemariie/pseuds/katiemariie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When McCoy is trapped in a cave-in, it gives Spock the chance to reenact Odo's confession of love in "Heart of Stone"--with very different results. (Seeing as McCoy isn't a Changeling. ...or is he? No, really, he isn't.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feats of Jack London

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tprillahfiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tprillahfiction/gifts).



> Written as a (very) belated Chanukah gift for tprillahfiction, who wanted, "a hurt/comfort Spock/McCoy where McCoy is the one injured and spock has to nurse him back to health/help him/ whatever. XDDDDD the worse mcCoy is hurt, the better. But he has to be made all better at the end."

In this age of hypo-vaccines and man-made viruses that can cut down entire populations like a forrest, Leonard McCoy still likes to think he has a decent respect for the forces of Mother Nature and the unprecedented chaos she can summon. He's a doctor (not a Klingon), but he knows to never underestimate the enemy. Real, unbridled nature can tear a hole in a person (in a people) just as good as anything the Federation's rivals could cook up in a lab.

He remains alert, looking in every microscope for the tiny, barely alive particles searching for new hosts. He supposes that's why he doesn't see it coming. He's thinking too small. He never once thinks a whole planet would be the natural order's weapon of choice.

Earthquakes. Ha. It's ironic that they're still called that when Earth's seismic activity was mastered by science centuries ago. You'd think they'd give a planet that still suffers from quakes naming rights.

They're in a cave when the tremors start. That's just the kind of luck folks on the Enterprise have—the worst place at the worst time. 

McCoy recalls panicking for half a second before his training kicks in. But by then it's too late.

It's not a complete cave-in. McCoy can still see some light. But, given the stalactite pinning him to the cave floor, seeing a bright light in the distance might not be such a good thing. He does his best to not go towards it.

“Doctor!” Spock calls once the rumbling subsides.

“Here,” McCoy yells back with some difficulty, the rubble resting on his abdomen depressing his diaphragm.

Nonetheless, with that damned Vulcan hearing, Spock finds him. “Doctor. You are injured.”

“Tell me something I don't know.”

“My phaser and communicator were destroyed in the quake.”

“And I'm lying on mine.” McCoy winces, feeling the sharp angles of his equipment digging into his back. “Are you okay?”

“I am uninjured.”

“Do you think you could...?” He looks down at the stalactite and other rubble crushing the lower half of his body.

Spock nods before kneeling down to assess how to safely remove the rocks. After a minute, he gets to work, removing the smaller bits of rubble like he's playing pick-up sticks. He's scientific enough about it—careful if it was anyone else—that McCoy doesn't feel any pain. Although that is probably shock. When all but the stalactite is removed, Spock stands up, stepping away from McCoy to consider the object pressing down on his thighs.

“Can you lift it?” McCoy asks.

“We will see.” Spock squats, wrapping his arms around the stalactite in a bear hug, then pulling upward. But the pressure on McCoy's thighs doesn't cease. The only hint that Spock is doing any actual lifting (or attempted lifting) is the artery bulging in his forehead, no doubt bringing more blood into Spock's increasingly green face.

“Spock, _Spock_ ,” McCoy says, “stop it. You wanna give yourself a hernia?”

“A hernia,” Spock responds, his voice tight from the strain he's under, “is infinitely preferable to being trapped under a stalagmite.”

“Stalactite,” McCoy corrects. 

“I stand corrected.” Spock lets go of the rock formation in question. He wipes the sweat from his brow with his forearm. “Can you reach your phaser now? We could use it to dematerialize the rock.”

“I think—” McCoy sticks his hand underneath his back, feeling the phaser with his fingertips. “I think I can. I'll need to sit up.”

“Do you require assistance?”

“Yeah, I, uh...” McCoy lifts his neck off the ground—that's as much as he can do without hitting his personal pain threshold. “I think I mighta broke a rib. Or three.”

“If you sit up, you risk further injury.”

“You think I don't know that?” McCoy spits. “I'd rather get a little internal bleeding than die in a damned cave.”

“You are not going to die here.”

“You're optimistic for a Vulcan.”

“We're a hopeful race,” Spock deadpans. 

McCoy stifles an amused chuckle, wary of the pain it'd cause. “Just... help me sit up, would ya?”

“Very well.” Spock crouches down next to McCoy, gently placing his hands between his shoulders and the cool cave floor. “Shall I proceed?”

“Yeah. You lift me up, I'll get the phaser.”

“On the count of three. One, two, three...” With surprisingly shaky hands, Spock raises McCoy into a sitting position.

“I got it, I got it. Put me down.”

Spock lowers McCoy's shoulders to the ground, following him the way down so their faces are just inches apart when Spock carefully removes the hand cradling the back of McCoy's head, letting it rest on the cave floor. Spock lingers there hovering over McCoy for an odd second before standing and straightening his tunic in that fidgety way of his.

“Your phaser?” he asks, looking down at the mangled metal in McCoy's fist.

“Or what's left of it.”

“You are fortunate that it did not discharge beneath you.”

“You always look on the bright side.” McCoy picks through the pieces of metal—they seemed bigger when they were digging into his kidneys. “Ha.” He holds up a twisted fragment. “My communicator.”

Spock plucks it out of his fingers, holding it up to the light. “The thomsonian conduit was damaged on impact.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Not without a soldering laser.”

“Goddamnit.”

“Providence has very little to do with it, doctor.”

“You need to get help.”

“Help from where? We're the only sentient life on this planet. Is that not the reason we are here?”

“Are you gonna throw that in my face, now? Fine, I picked the wrong planet to survey. Now I'm probably gonna die here. Is that good enough for you?”

Spock looks away. “No.”

“What else—”

The planet rocks beneath them, the cave walls shake around them. Spock clings to a nearby stalagmite, struggling to stay upright.

As soon as the tremors stop, as soon as the hunk of stone using McCoy as a pillow stops rocking, McCoy snarls, “Spock, you gotta get out of here. Go back to the shuttle and call for help.”

“Not feasible, doctor.”

“Not—not feasible?”

“By my estimate, the cave ceiling will collapse before help arrives. I have to get you out now.”

“Spock—” Spock grabs hold of the stalactite again, yanking it upward to no effect. “ _Spock_ , we tried this. Unless you doubled your strength in the last five minutes, this rock ain't going anywhere.”

“I have to try.”

“You know what Einstein said about the definition of insanity? Well, the same goes for 'illogical.' Nothing's changed, you're gonna get the same results. Get—”

Another quake rips through the cave, the stalactites hanging overhead shaking like a chandelier. Another good tremor and one of them would come crashing through Spock's head.

“Goddamnit, man!” McCoy shouts over the quaking. “It's over for me. Don't you get that? I was dead the moment we walked in this cave! But you can still get outta here in one piece.”

Spock's jaw clenches. “Not likely.”

“I don't know what kinda Vulcan death ritual you're tryin' to fulfill here, but I don't want any part of it. If I gotta die down here, it's gonna be on my terms. And that means the last thing I see is not gonna be your smug face. You hear me?”

“You can yell as much as you wish, but I will not leave you.”

“Spock, if you stay here, you will die. You said it yourself, this cave is gonna collapse—” He's cut off by another tumultuous quake.

Spock is still trying to lift that rock. “I will only stay so long as it takes to remove you from the cave.”

“Get it through that thick Vulcan skull of yours—there's not gonna be any rescue for me. I'm dying here. And when I go I don't want your death on my conscience. Please, I am _begging_ you, get out!”

“I will not abandon you.”

“It's not abandonment if I'm asking you to leave. And I'm asking you to leave.”

“You still do not understand. I _cannot_ leave you.”

“Spock, please!”

“No, I won't leave you.”

“Why? Why stay here for me of all people?”

“Because!” Spock snarls. He backs away from McCoy, breathing heavily before saying in a quiet voice, “Because you are one half of me.” He crumples to the ground, resting his head on a pile of rubble, collapsing from the emotional—not physical—strain on his Vulcan body. “So now you know.”

“ _What?_ What the devil does that even—” Another quake sends the stalactite rocking—this time all the way onto McCoy's left knee. “Jesus Christ!”

Spock stares at the rock like it's Christ himself, summoned by McCoy's oath. “Doctor.” He swallows.

“What? Can't you see I'm a little busy writhing in pain?”

“Doctor, if my estimations are correct, with the stalactite in its current position, I have sufficient leg strength to push it off of you.”

“Leg stre...” McCoy glances at the cave wall to his right less than a foot away.

“I will likely have to sit at least partially on your right leg.”

“You mean my _broken_ right leg?”

“That is the leg to which I am referring.”

McCoy sighs, shaking his head. “Make it quick.”

Spock tiptoes over McCoy's body. Pressing his back against the cave wall, Spock lowers himself down into a sit, resting the backs of his thighs on McCoy's leg.

McCoy yowls in pain, causing an impressive echo through the cave.

Spock looks down at him, readying his legs to push outward. “This will likely hurt.”

“It already hurts.”

“Very well.” Spock sends his feet forward in one long, fluid motion, pressing the soles of his shoes against the the rock like it was a leg press in the Enterprise's gym. What McCoy experiences is nothing so elegant. If _feeling_ his left kneecap shatter doesn't set him to screaming, _hearing_ it sure does. “Doctor?”

“Yeah,” McCoy pants.

“You are free of the debris.”

“Thanks. I, uh... Let's get outta here, huh?”

“A wise decision, doctor.”

–

“What did you mean back there in the cave?” McCoy asks, free and loose with the dose of first aid kit analgesics coursing through his system. “About me being half of you?”

A split-second pause in Spock's button pushing and lever pulling at the Galileo's helm, followed by a few fast clicks on the control panel. McCoy can hear the vinyl creak of the command chair, a few steps on the deck, and then Spock is looming over him. He's silent, pulling on that damn tunic. “I can tend to your wounds more thoroughly now.”

“Go ahead.”

He kneels down and sets to taping McCoy's ribs. “When a Vulcan child is born, it is not fully formed spiritually. Only through interacting with other beings do we become whole. The person who aids us in this quest the most is known as 'one half' of that Vulcan.”

“And _I'm_ that person for you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure it's not Jim?”

Spock's lips twitch. “I am quite certain. Jim is... a good friend. He is perhaps the first and only Human to accept me for who I am. Whereas you challenge my identity at every turn, and through that you aid my growth as a person as I either reconsider or reaffirm who I am based on your suggestions. Your... antagonistic nature makes you one half of me.”

McCoy grins. “You know, down in the cave, I thought you mighta meant I was your 'other half,' like I was your wife or something. But you were just calling me the biggest pain in your ass.”

Spock looks down at his hands, busying them with the first aid kit. “Your knowledge of Vulcan marriage customs is apparently rather limited, doctor.” He takes out the portable dermal regenerator, charging it to full. “We have very different standards than Humans for what is considered a 'good match.' From my understanding, Humans believe marital compatibility stems from similarity of temperament, beliefs, and life goals. This is not so for Vulcans. Spiritual evolution occurs through conflict, so we seek a mate who will challenge us. A good Vulcan marriage is defined by discord rather than tranquility.”

McCoy blinks. “So you want to marry me because we fight all the time?” He snorts. “That'll turn out great.”

“Conflict is not the sole aspect of marriage. There is also the...” Spock reaches over, unzipping McCoy's slacks. “...physical element.”

McCoy shivers despite himself, a flush rising to his skin.

“I am referring, of course—” Spock undoes the button on McCoy's fly, pulling the slacks down to his knees. “—to the care tendered when one's spouse is inferm.” He runs the dermal regenerator over the lacerations on McCoy's thighs.

“Of course.”

Spock continues down McCoy's legs, healing what damage he can, but most of the injuries will have to wait for treatment until they rendezvous with the Enterprise. In the mean time, McCoy will live. He'll grouse about it, but he'll live.

He huffs, pissy and in pain, uncomfortable with Spock's closeness (both emotionally and physically) and the strained homoerotic subtext that apparently undergirds all of their interactions. “You know,” McCoy sneers, “I was gonna thank you for saving my life, but seeing as it was all for your spiritual benefit, I won't waste my breath.”

Spock grips McCoy's naked foot, warming it in his hands. And goddamn does that not feel good? “Believe me, Dr. McCoy, when I say not a breath of yours could be considered a waste.”

“Spock, if that's the best you got, you might wanna find another half.”

“Need I remind you that insults will only encourage me.”

“If that's the case, then I'm gonna make you regret ever saving my life.”

“You can try, but I doubt that you will succeed in that endeavor.”

“And _I_ doubt you'll succeed in whatever Vulcan courtship dance you're playing at.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?” He pulls his hands from McCoy's foot.

“I didn't say you could stop.”

“If you are cold—”

“Of course I'm cold! You've nearly stripped me, you pointy-eared pervert.”

He could swear that Spock rolls his eyes. “I have other ways of keeping you warm.”

McCoy gapes. “You wouldn't...”

Spock pulls the thermal blanket from the first aid kit and spreads it over McCoy, taking care to pull it up to his neck and tucking it in. With Spock leaning in close like that, his face just inches away, McCoy can't help but look at his mouth. “You know—” McCoy wets his lips. “—teasing a grievously injured man with unfulfilled innuendo is cruel and unusual punishment.”

“You can notify the Seldonis IV Convention as soon as we return to the Enterprise.”

McCoy's gaze drifts upwards into Spock's eyes. “Do you think we could really do it?”

Spock looks McCoy up and down. “Not in your present condition.”

“Not that. At least, not right away. I mean...” McCoy lowers his voice. “Do you think we could be _married_? Be good for each other?”

“Two millennia of Vulcan history would say, 'yes.'”

“And what do you say?”

His thumb strokes McCoy's forehead, pushing aside the hair plastered with cold sweat and rock dust. “You require rest, doctor.”

McCoy grabs hold of Spock's hand, gripping it as tight as he can—which, given the circumstances, isn't all that tight. “I'll do that, and you bring us home.”

Spock stands, his hand slipping out of McCoy's. “I will ensure we successfully rendezvous with the Enterprise.”

He returns to the helm. McCoy lets his heavy eyelids close, leaving his unconscious mind the task of sorting out what the hell just happened.

–

McCoy wakes up in sickbay, bones mended and bruises healed. He's got a more-than-healthy respect for Mother Nature now, but in a battle between the natural order and Geoffrey M'Benga, McCoy'll put his money on M'Benga every time.

“Welcome back.” Geoff smiles.

“How long was I out?”

“Three days.” Geoff crosses his arms over his chest. “It seems Mr. Spock put you in a healing trance.”

McCoy sighs, rolling his eyes. “Damn interfering Vulcan.”

“That's a rather intimate gesture for a Vulcan.”

“You don't know the half of it.” McCoy sits up in the biobed, fatigue rather than pain slowing him down. “He probably rubbed his scent glands all over me while I was passed out.”

“Is there something you feel like sharing?” Geoff asks, an expression of pure amusement etched on his face.

With some effort, McCoy swings his legs over the side of the biobed. “I don't know. Is doctor-patient confidentiality still in place?”

“Firmly in place.”

McCoy drums his fingers on the bed. “Down in the cave... Spock wouldn't leave me. Even when it looked like I'd never get out from under that rock. He was ready to die down there with me.”

“Heavy.”

“It gets better. Then he told me I was 'one half' of him.”

“You're kidding.”

“I take it you know what that means.”

“I don't think any Human can truly know what that means, but I know more than most.”

“Is it as big a deal as Spock makes it out to be?”

“Knowing Spock, it's a bigger deal than he lets on.”

“Jesus. How do I... how do I even respond to this?”

“Well, are you interested in him?”

“Yeah, I'm interested in him. I don't know if I'm interested in _marrying him_.”

“Then go find out. The way I see it, you've got a man pledging himself to you unequivocally. Now you just have to see if he can win you.”

“Win me? Like I'm a maiden fair?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a Southern belle.” Geoff grins. “A Georgia peach.”

McCoy slides off the biobed. “If that's the kinda bedside manner I'm gonna get, I'll take my business elsewhere.”

“You're free to leave whenever you want. I'm serious. You're off duty for the next week; I don't want to see you in here 'til then.”

“You realize by keeping me away from my work you're condemning me to think about this Spock business.”

“I'll try not to shed too many tears over it.”

“Do no harm, my ass...” McCoy grumbles his way out of his sickbay— _Geoff's_ sickbay, now. Let him deal with the paperwork for once.

Even with his injuries all healed and with whatever Vulcan voodoo Spock worked on him, the walk to back McCoy's cabin is more taxing than usual—and it's not just the thoughts weighing him down. After a quick sonic shower (he's too tired for the water showers he prefers) and a change of clothes, McCoy decides to head over to Spock's and see what his 'other half' could do to put him in better spirits.

Five second after he rings the chime, Spock greets him at the door.

McCoy licks his lips, looking him up and down. “So, about that 'physical element...'”

“I am willing to _provide_ ,” Spock says, “if you are willing to _receive_.”

“Am I ever.” McCoy walks past Spock into his quarters, feeling Spock's eyes on his back (and likely a bit lower) as he makes him way to the bed. He kicks his shoes off, undoes his pants, letting them fall to the floor, and crawls into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. “Spock, be a dear and fetch me a bowl of chicken noodle soup from the galley. That always makes me feel better when I'm 'infirm.'”

There's an almost-imperceptible twitch in the left corner of Spock's mouth. “Of course.”

Oh, this is gonna be fun.


End file.
